


i can stop whenever i want (and other lies the most notorious crew tells)

by goldcode



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 14:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldcode/pseuds/goldcode
Summary: Life felt better.He felt almost free.He had his reasons for it.Life was hazy.





	i can stop whenever i want (and other lies the most notorious crew tells)

**Author's Note:**

> im projecting onto everyones favorite golden boy, if you couldnt tell

He’s covered in fake gold jewelry. Covered in fake masks. Covered in lies, anyway. Who is he to deny himself this lie? He’s been keeping it up for however many years. (How many years?) (How many years has he been in Los Santos?) If his crew knows he’s lying, they don’t saying anything. They turn their eyes. Good, Gavin thinks. They all have their ways of dealing with the mass murder and destruction they cause, he even has lists of what they do to deal with it. 

Michael has his fire, not the controlled fire like he does in the jobs they do. He lets it go free. Just watches. Like it has its own mind and Michael is a spectator who paid to see it. He lets it grow far too large, lets it destroy everything in its path. Then, he throws water on it, until it fizzles out. Like it was never there.

Ryan would become empty, in every sense of the word. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t show any emotion. He puts on his mask, physical and emotional. He acts like how he was when he was just the lone Vagabond. No words to be said to the crew. The lone Vagabond leaves in the middle of the night, comes back late afternoon the next day, says nothing. Then he takes off the mask, becomes their perfect little Ryan, goofy with a side of murder. They forget about the nights he becomes the Vagabond.

Jeremy burns himself out, like a firework. He’s loud and boisterous before his downfall, reveling in the destruction they cause. Until there are moments of silence, until he has a few seconds to think. Gavin doesn’t know what he thinks of, his face doesn’t show. But Jeremy will forget to be Jeremy, his eyes will cloud over. He’ll go slack, like his soul lifts out of his body. They don’t say anything.

Jack will read the newspaper. Study it, take down names in her notes. All from the obituaries. All from something they causes. Cut newspaper clippings out and spend nights, when her makeup from a few days ago is smeared and dripping from her face, at her computer researching the names. A college professor, an assembly line worker, a loved brother. Jack ends up with the least money of them all at the end of the month, and she doesn’t have any notable purchases to attribute to it. But there’s a statue, or a bench, or a building dedicated to someone recently deceased, funded by an anonymous buyer.

Geoff will sit in the heist room, surrounded by drunken mistakes. He already throws back shots like it’s water and he’s in the desert. It can only go downhill from there. Geoff will go past black-out drunk, to where’s he screaming in the room, throwing glass, downing a bottle of liquor. The curtains to the glass door are drawn. It doesn’t quiet his yelling. 

Gavin must take after Geoff, he thinks. In a different way. His own brand of neon nihilism. He shoplifts cheap, colored drinks with the highest proof, because he can. Wears baggy pants and shoves as much as can until his pants are almost falling. Then he fills his backpack. The clerk knows, but they know the Los Santos golden boy when they see him. He’s almost a regular customer with how often he comes buy now. If they end up with thousands of dollars in a plastic bag behind the counter, Gavin knows nothing about it.

He downs as many drinks as he can in a minute, like a high school game. He challenges himself to  _ do one more, you have ten seconds left, hurry _ . He does. It’s 3 in the afternoon, and he’s 9 bottles in. He’s 8 seconds from throwing up. 7 minutes from blacking out. 6 feet from the bathroom. 5 pairs of eyes on him. 

They all look away. 

Gavin is giggling even as he feels the vile come up. Hunched over the toilet across the hall, Gavin can only think about the next time he’s able to get drunk again.

He starts later in the day, the next day. He’s sipping them now, not chugging. 

He realizes quickly, that is stupid. Grin. Chug. He can’t get enough of the feeling of being tipsy, like he’s not in his body, like he can’t breathe, like he’s so ecstatic to be semi-aware of everything. He doesn’t realize he’s crossed into ‘drunk’ territory so quickly, and hasn’t been tipsy for quite a while. A part of him knows this, he ignores it. He wants to be hedonistic, impulsive enough to blackout, be so far out of control that the baddest crew in the country, don’t know what to do. He can only hope they kick him out. They won’t. They have their own ways, their own ways of what Gavin is doing. He doesn’t name it, though he doesn’t hesitate to name Geoff’s beast. Same name, different breed. Geoff drinks until he’s angry, Gavin drinks until he’s barely human. (What is he?) (He almost wishes he was machine.) (He’s the farthest thing from machine.) (He’s too human.) (He’s what gods would hate humans for being.) (Is he a god?)

Gavin drowns in pink, glittery drinks that are more alcohol than anything else drinkable. The fuzz of being drunk won’t wear off anytime soon, he adores it like his gold jewellery. Everything is so easy in this state. He tries to tell everyone this, lies down in the middle of the living room. The rejection of his crew brushes right off. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t.

He drinks a little more.

He drinks a little more every weekend. 

Every day. 

From ‘a way to disconnect from the atrocities’ to ‘a way to survive.’ Geoff begs him to stop, when he’s taking crystal clear shots in too big shades, hiding too little self-perseverance in his eyes. He’s crying, on his knees in front of Gavin, trying to make him stop. You haven’t been sober in days, I miss you, we miss you. 

Gavin doesn’t remember it when he wakes up.


End file.
